I’m low,
says Alyssa.
Gimme your hand.
A shot of cold
milk blooms in
coffee. I feel
this power tendril
from the engine
at my heart
to shoulder,
arm, fingers.
She says,
Ahhh, send me
that good energy.
for Alyssa
No notes about this poem!
More poems in the Catalog of Interstices series:
More poems about the body:
- A Confirmation
- Blood Clot: Coda
- Daydream
- Dead Letters (to Brandon)
- Forging the Boy
- From the Shadow (5)
- Imagine a City
- Muscle Memory
- Synesthesia
- The Beauty of the Metaphor is that it Breaks Down
- Viscosity